The roof is dark and we’re naked beneath the stars on a futon soaked with sweat. I’m on my back, looking up at Kiki, her body silhouetted against the dark night sky, shimmering with perspiration, her fingers clawing my chest as her breath quickens.
Jazz floats over our bodies. As the track ends and turns into a hiss, I glance over to her ancient record changer. The needle lifts automatically from the vinyl groove. I’ve only known CD players and I’m fascinated by the mechanical intricacy. The arm of the machine clicks and appears from its hiding place, whirring softly as the current record is lifted from the platter and stored on the bottom stack before a fresh one is deposited on the player and the needle descends again.
As the music begins again, Kiki arches back and I can feel her clamp down on me as she comes, her deep moan drowned by the jazz filling the summer air.
Before I knew Kiki, I never cared much for jazz, but now it’s the soundtrack to our lovemaking. Twelve vinyl records with illegible labels were rescued from a flooded basement. They’re all she plays. I never know exactly what I’m listening to.
Kiki leans over me and I kiss her breasts while she takes a fresh spliff from the cookie tin and lights up.
“Still hard?” she says. “Here, take this.”
She hands me the spliff and I take a long drag, the fragrant White Widow smoke filling my lungs. I love this weed, relaxing me all over, but not dulling my mind. Or my libido.
White Widow smoke fills my lungs. I love this weed, relaxing me all over, but not dulling my mind. Or my libido.
We pass the spliff to and fro, while Kiki uses her free hand to bring me relief. When I’m close to coming, she moves down my body and takes me into her warm mouth, her cool hand rubbing while her tongue circles around and around. Her firm hand keeps stroking me while she occasionally comes up for another toke from the spliff that I hold out to her. My feet and hands tingle as all the blood draws from my limbs. I warn her that I’m about to come, but she doesn’t draw back.
The mellow high from the White Widow enhances the sensation of her mouth until I cannot hold back anymore.
While my body cools in the summer breeze Kiki snuggles up to me and takes the spliff from my fingers. A cheerful jazz tune starts playing, I ask her the name of the song.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Jazz is just background noise to me.”
“That’s an expensive set-up for background noise.”
She glances at the record changer. “It’s my boyfriend’s.”
I struggle up on my elbows. “You have a —”
“— Don’t worry. “She puts a hand on my chest. “He’s in jail.”
“Jail,” she says. “So he won’t be around for a while.”
“A while?” I say, my mouth dry with fear.
“He finished his first year last week,” Kiki says. “So he’ll be away for another four.”
When you’re young and horny, there’s not much that will stop you from having sex with an experienced 24-year-old woman.
Five years? This is the Netherlands, where sentences are lenient. And people often get released early for being model prisoners. I wonder what he is in for.
“What if he gets out early?”
“For good behaviour?” Kiki laughs softly. “You don’t know Max.”
I don’t know you either, I think. Not that it matters. When you’re young and horny, there’s not much that will stop you from having sex with an experienced 24-year-old woman. With her own apartment and a roof terrace. And a boyfriend in jail.
I’d met her at my job, deep-cleaning schools during summer vacation. I’d smoke copious amounts of ganja and listen to Bob Marley blasting over the school’s PA system while scouring linoleum floors and putting on fresh coats of wax. My stoner co-worker tripped over a vacuum cleaner and fell down a flight of stairs. Sloe-eyed Kiki was his replacement, rolling up her sleeves to show off badass tattoos before she wordlessly grabbed a mop and waxed the floors.
We worked well together. She talked, I listened. Most of her conversation was about articles she read in psychology journals. She wanted to study psychology, but money was always a problem.
I didn’t have any money and I wasn’t much to look at, so I didn’t look for a hidden agenda when she asked for a ride on the back of my bicycle one day, because hers had a flat tire.
And I fell for her. Hard.
As I was soaked in sweat from the ride, she invited me up for a glass of water. Took me up to her roof terrace, where we smoked a White Widow spliff and listened to jazz on her ancient record changer. As we sat on the parapet in the sunshine, she crawled on my lap and gave me a hot kiss that set my brain on fire.
And I fell for her. Hard.
“Five years,” I said. “What’s he in for?”
“Robbery,” Kiki said. “Aggravated assault. And homicide.”
“He killed someone?” I whispered.
She looked me in the eyes. “Max swore his partner pistol-whipped the owner and killed his wife when she came down the stairs. That’s why Max is doing five in the Bijlmerbajes and Nico is doing ten to fifteen in Vught.”
Vught, where they put the violent and the crazy.
Her hand covered my groin. “I love your stamina,” she whispered. “I could get used to having you around every day.”
“You want me to move in?”
“Well, you said you still lived with your parents.”
I nodded. “At least until January.”
“What’s in January?”
“My 18th birthday.”